


better left unsaid

by shiruru



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Blow Jobs, First Meetings, M/M, Romance, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-07 15:57:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12236088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiruru/pseuds/shiruru
Summary: His heart rate is rising. The alcohol in the tip of the cup trembles for a second alongside the steadiness in his hands. There’s a moment where Izaya thinks he’s panicking, a familiar throb of adrenaline stirring up in the hollow of his chest, the smile turning brittle and straining at its edges. But then it subsides, replaced by a low thrumming of nostalgia, of something just out of his reach, and it’s a slow sleepy sadness all the way through.“Shizuo Heiwajima,” Shizuo says, extending a hand and giving Izaya a name to go along with the face. Izaya eyes his hand with instinctive caution, the hair on the back of his neck standing and a shiver shaking throughout him. He inhales with his nose and exhales through his lips, weaves it into a breathless oh. The voice is familiar, but Shizuo is not. “It’s good to finally meet you.”“Same to you, same to you. Now, won’t you refill my cup, Bartender-san?”(There's something distinctly familiar about the bartender, but Izaya can't remember what it is.)





	better left unsaid

**Author's Note:**

> Shinra and Celty decide that there are some things better conveyed through just about anything but reality.
> 
> (au: huge divergence from canon. a different final fight, different measures taken.)

**ANOTHER.**

()

The voice is familiar; the face is not.

“Hey,” the stranger says, rings out into the air. Izaya slips on a smile. Every bit of him is suffocating, oxygen whisked away from his grasp. But still. His lungs work overtime, and the smile on his lips turns true. “Celty told me you were here.”

“Celty,” Izaya repeats plainly, tasting the name on his tongue. A blind bitterness seeps into the back of his throat, but it vanishes almost as immediately as it had appeared. “Of course. I take it you know Shinra, then?”

The man snorts. “You know he doesn’t leave her side.”

“Astute observation.”

His heart rate is rising. The alcohol in the tip of the cup trembles for a second alongside the steadiness in his hands. There’s a moment where Izaya thinks he’s _panicking,_ a familiar throb of adrenaline stirring up in the hollow of his chest, the smile turning brittle and straining at its edges. But then it subsides, replaced by a low thrumming of nostalgia, of something just out of his reach, and it’s a slow sleepy sadness all the way through.

“Shizuo Heiwajima,” Shizuo says, extending a hand and giving Izaya a name to go along with the face. Izaya eyes his hand with instinctive caution, the hair on the back of his neck standing and a shiver shaking throughout him. He inhales with his nose and exhales through his lips, weaves it into a breathless _oh._ The voice is familiar, but Shizuo is not. “It’s good to finally meet you.”

“Same here, same here. Now, won’t you refill my cup, Bartender-san?”

()

The party is a distant priority in his head.

Izaya has been enjoying it so far, with the cool drinks and the counter seats and the countless guests present. In his hands lies the same wine glass from before, saccharine red resting inside.

He’d ditched the jacket in favor of another, plaited in red and black, and the absence of it irks him but not enough to really make him uncomfortable. Shifting himself further up the bar stool, he takes another drink, watches the bartender with curious eyes.

Shinra and Celty are nowhere to be found. Izaya would assume that they had probably taken residence in their bedroom after one too many drinks, but from somewhere comes Shinra’s voice, ringing and boisterous, and that possibility vanishes the same way the wine goes down his throat, sour and stinging. Izaya lowers the glass down onto the counter top, makes sure the noise is stark and loud in the midst of the party. Not loud enough to break through the thick chatter, but loud enough to attract Shizuo’s attention.

“Another.”

()

He doesn’t understand the whittling in his head. His thoughts are coherent, and the ability to link from one to another still lies at the back of his mind, waiting. But underneath that is an endless buzzing of slushed words, images too fogged up by given-in temptations of alcohol, and it’s all locked behind a safe not even the best locksmith could get into. Still, it makes sure Izaya _knows_ it’s there. Vibrates relentlessly, restless.

Izaya barely remembers this feeling when he stepped through the doors of the house. _Was it even there?_ Izaya asks, contemplates this to the sound of the way Shizuo pours wine with practiced ease.  He drags his fingertips against the wood, elbow resting on the counter. _Was it?_

“Here you go.”

Izaya looks up at Shizuo.

“Fast,” he comments off-handedly, fingers curling around the base of the glass. He takes a sip again, this time long and drawn-out. Shizuo’s gaze remains on him throughout.

“You’re something,” Shizuo remarks, throwing his focus onto the countertop, where Izaya fingers lie. He pulls at his bow tie. “Celty was right when she told me you were different.”

Izaya’s breath hitches. There’s a moment of self-consciousness, heat flaring up at the back of his neck. The air around him grows heavy and ( _he reaches into his jacket for the familiar hilt of a weapon—)_ he reaches for the wine again, holds it up ( _to ward off the beast)_ for another drink. A ( _smirk)_ frown plays at his lips, and he is unsure.

“How so? We’ve barely met,” Izaya drawls ( _hisses)._ The whittling increases until it trembles inside of him, every inch of his nerves tinging with a cry to move, the soft of the seat insidious like quicksand. His temple throbs with a dull ache, one faint enough to brush off as the side effects of avoiding alcohol for far too long. His arms feel like they’re breaking ( _already broken),_ the frown on his face ( _strained and weary)_ awkward and out-of-place, but the trembling never ceases alongside his steady willpower as Shizuo leans across the counter top.

“Gut feeling,” Shizuo says. “And I have pretty good instinct.”

( _Monster.)_

“Is that so, Shi _zu-chan?”_

 _“Don’t call me that,”_ Shizuo snaps. Irritability hinges in the sharp tone of his protest, temperament rising in the narrow of his eyes that flicker back into abashed neutrality the next second. Izaya stares, unable to wince even if he really wanted to. Shizuo raises his fingers to rub the back of his neck in sheepish guilt. “Sorry. That nickname just—pissed me off.”

“…Good to know,” Izaya mumbles. He arches a brow in question of the trigger for the blond’s guilt, but then decides he doesn’t care all that much for it. There are more important things. “Care to explain the temper?”

“I dunno. Happened on instinct—I couldn’t stop myself. Uh. I hope I didn’t scare you. Free drinks? On me?”

Shizuo backs away from Izaya, moving back to the shelves of liquor. Reaching out for a bottle Izaya knows by heart and by taste, he uncorks it and comes back before Izaya can respond to his offer. It’s an unnecessary question, so Izaya purses his lips. Shizuo looks like he would have poured Izaya free one regardless.

Izaya takes another sip. _Gut feeling,_ he repeats in his head. Shizuo turns away, averting his eyes in the time it takes for Izaya to slowly swallow. He heads on to another party guest waving for his attention, their demeanor hasty and impatient.

“We should talk more,” Izaya blurts before anything else. He regains himself just in time to lower his volume, a bone-chilling shudder licking at him with embarrassment as its owner. He swallows to refresh the taste of the sour of the wine, hopes for it to cover up the scratchy yet smooth roll of his voice. “Shizuo.”

( _shizu-chan…)_

Shizuo doesn’t stop walking, but he turns his head back, and it’s the first ( _first?)_ time Izaya sees him smile.

**MOMENT.**

 ()

“Off shift?” Izaya asks momentarily after Shizuo appears from the back alley, hands in the dark of his pockets. “I thought it’d be later.”

“No, just taking a work break.”

“Do you really need one? The bar isn’t as popular as it used to be, is it?”

Shizuo eyes him. He shrugs his shoulders, rolls his eyes. “For _you._ What, you forgot how you were buggin’ me to leave the place?”

“Excuse me for not knowing every single detail of your occupation, Shizuo,” Izaya retorts, like he hasn’t planned and adjusted his schedule for Shizuo’s own. Shizuo scowls but quickly wipes it off into a soft frown. “Do photocopy your schedule so I get an extra copy next time.”

“Not what I mean,” Shizuo grunts, shakes his head. “Anyways. How’s everything so far?”

“Everything?” Izaya repeats. He tilts his head to the side. “Perfectly fine. My life isn’t as complicated as yours, bartender-san. How many drinks do you know how to make again? Five? Four?”

“A lot,” Shizuo fills in for him, amusement hanging at the edges of his voice. “It’s not that complicated.”

“And _why_ do you have to learn all that again?”

“It’s my job.”

“Exactly,” Izaya says. “Complication at its most complicated.”

“You want me to not do my job?” Shizuo asks, furrowing a brow. He’s still following the line of conversation well and quick enough to respond, still focused on every syllable of Izaya’s words. The grin that comes to life on Izaya’s lips is genuine and real—it’s always a delight to be the center of attention.

“Get an easier job so I can gloat about how difficult my life is over yours,” Izaya responds nicely, increasing his pace and overtaking Shizuo. Neither of them plan to walk too far away from the establishment Shizuo works at. Shizuo’s break ends at the end of thirty minutes and there’s always cramped traffic taking place at around this time, so Izaya avoids the roads and opts for a circle around the block. “That’s what friends do, right? They help each other out.”

“Not their egos,” Shizuo replies. “Especially not yours.”

“I’ll have you know _my_ ego doesn’t need anyone else but me,” Izaya says back.

“Yeah. What I said.”

Shizuo takes out a lighter and cigarette from his front pocket. “Mind if I smoke?”

“You shouldn’t,” Izaya drawls. “I’m not arranging your funeral.”

“No one is, because I’m not going to die from this,” Shizuo responds. The lighter softly clicks as a flame sparks up into life, the end of the cigar teetering above the orange glow. “Want one?”

“Resorting to _peer pressure?_ You must be the nicotine-addled friend the schools are talking about, Shizuo,” Izaya teases, shaking his head.

“Shut _up,”_ Shizuo huffs, biting harshly down onto the cigarette. “You can say no. I didn’t really know if you smoked or not, anyway.”

“We’ve known each other for _months._ Frankly, I’m offended you didn’t know,” Izaya complains, jaw dropped and his hands against his chest for dramatic effect. “I thought we had something special, Shizuo.”

“Right,” Shizuo grunts plainly, rolling his eyes. “Sorry for fuckin’ it all up.”

His tone is cold, a blunt stone compared to the sharp spear point of Izaya’s wit, but Shizuo sighs amusement as he treads his hands into his hair. More or less Izaya thinks he’s been doing a good job at easing Shizuo into companionship, the other less stiff and less awkward than he was in the beginning. It’s something, Izaya muses the same way he muses the light of Shizuo’s hair under the sun, contemplation at its peak and focus carefully kept.

“Your hair—was it always blond?”

“Huh? No, I dyed it when I was younger. Around high school.”

“What a delinquent. And here I thought you’d accidentally fallen into a bucket of fast-drying dye.”

“Not that clumsy,” Shizuo says back. He lets go of wispy exhale. “Think we should be going back. Break’s almost over.”

“I’ll see you another time.”

()

_What do you think of him?_

Celty raises this up when Izaya stops by at Shinra’s for a matter related to his clients. In her hands, the PDA blinks, the screen flickers, the letters vanish out of sight for a moment before reforming. She isn’t wearing her helmet tonight, not needed when she has no plans on going out of the comfort of her home. Izaya flits his gaze from the black wisps that is her over to the question.

“Who?” he asks, feigns curiosity. Ignorance is a sly Casanova at the back of his throat, tinging his tone as he answers. He turns his gaze over to the clock on the wall, with as much interest as he had towards Celty’s question. “There were many at the party.”

_Shizuo. Shizuo Heiwajima. It’s been a while since you met him. What do you think about him?_

“He’s something,” Izaya offers, shooting her a casual glance. Celty nods. Her fingers fly over the PDA before abruptly stopping, hesitant about whatever she was going to ask. “In a good way,” Izaya adds as an afterthought.

He knows Celty to be a good friend of Shizuo’s. To what extent, he’s unsure, but he’s being genuine in his response regardless. If it were anyone else he’d assume Celty had been asked to gather his opinion, but he didn’t think Shizuo would need to do that. Flexing his fingers, Izaya shut his eyes tightly and tilted his head back to lean against the support of the sofa, waits for the clacking of keys to cease.

_Really? ….this might be offensive, but I didn’t think you two would have gotten along at first._

The message flashes in the air for a few seconds before Celty directs the PDA back to herself again, erasing and hastily typing. But Izaya is sighing amusement, shaking his head as he leans back into the couch, resting his legs on the coffee table.

“Gut instinct?” he asks. Celty drops what she was about to say, pauses stiffly for a moment before typing. Her response is swift. She is certain.

_You can say that._

Even without a face, her smile shines through easily.

()

(He asks Celty exactly what she’d told Shizuo about him. It’s an honest curiosity without second intentions. The party is long over and in the early hours of the morning Izaya lies—a faint throbbing present in his brain—against the window. Across him, Celty paces back and forth, her PDA in her hands, anxious for Shinra’s return from the repair store.

_Not much. Just who you were._

“Why?”

Celty isn’t facing him, but Izaya can feel the weight of her stare on his shoulders. She raises the PDA again, fingers tapping against it before ceasing movement and tapping frantically again. It takes a moment before she deems her answer worthy, a moment to rack her brain for a response to Izaya’s question. Izaya hums to himself, shifting his eyes out into the night outside, watching Shizuo stumble over the sidewalk, over to his car. He’s not drunk. It’s perfectly fine.

_The two of you know Shinra, so I thought why not each other, too? It worked out, didn’t it?_

“I see.”

Izaya leaves it at that. Drowsiness tips his eyelids closed, and he falls into sleep before he notices the fatigue forcing his shoulders to go lax.)

()

(Shinra comes back with tape, fixes the leaking faucet. He clicks his tongue at Izaya’s sleeping form before covering him with a spare blanket.

Looking over to Celty, he can’t help but grin widely.

 _What do you think?_ She asks without needing her PDA. Shinra runs his hands through his hair, sheepish.

“It’s not the best option, but I think we can let it go on. They’re happy, aren’t they? You’re happy at this, aren’t you?”)

**IN TIME.**

()

There are dreams.

It never comes into his recollection crystal clear, never becomes a problem big enough to be openly considered. But the skies are grey today and work is slow. The files have all been categorized accordingly by date, then by time, then by color, and the rain patters against the window relentlessly, casting his apartment in a thin haze. Shizuo is busy at work—Shinra, busy with his patients, and Celty is off somewhere delivering packages. Izaya’s not sure if Kadota still remembers him, and he’s not in the mood to head down to Russia Sushi. He tilts his head back, leans into the comfort of the chair.

Shutting his eyes is easy enough. It’s recalling that’s the hard part. Izaya tries, and tries, and conjures up faint sensations of the images, but it’s all just bits and pieces. The whirring of the clock lulls him in and he furrows his brow in concentration.

It’s not long until he accidentally blinks for a second far too long, slumping limp into slumber. 

()

( _It’s a messy city._

_Swirls of dark hang in the sky like satellites. The streets rage with fire and in front of him lies the broken support of a lamp post. He can’t tell where he’s moving, not with the ache so brilliantly stinging his bones, but he stumbles and tumbles and marches his way forward._

_“Izaya-kun.”_

_Rough at its edges. Izaya turns around, raising the knife in his hands._

_“You’ve finally arrived. I was beginning to grow bored.”)_

()

Shizuo is doing nothing in particular when Izaya stops by.

He doesn’t really have a choice. He could fight with himself against this, explain a thousand reasons how the holidays don’t necessarily mean the obligation to stop by and wish Shizuo a jolly end of the year, but that just leads to a burning wonder in his chest and restlessness that won’t quit until he gives in. It’s better to save the trouble and just go ahead with it, Izaya convinces himself, and with this in mind he knocks on the front of Shizuo’s door thrice.

The anticipation for the door to open is strikingly hard to wait through, though Shizuo is at the door like he’s been expecting Izaya’s arrival. He’s wearing a simple festive sweater and blue sweatpants, a vivid combination that Izaya uses as a conversation starter.

“Looking colourful today,” he greets, carelessly lifting a hand. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you out of that bartender suit.”

“Think you have,” Shizuo answers, stepping aside. “Wanna come in?”

“Why did you think I knocked?”

“I dunno. To sell me cookies?” Shizuo pointedly replies back, putting his hands into his pockets. “C’mere. There’s some sake in the kitchen. Kasuka’s gift.”

Shizuo’s apartment is surprisingly clean. Izaya had expected piles of clothes or holes in the walls, crowded corners and stained furniture. The living area is sparse, with only the bare necessities to go along with it—a simple television set that doesn’t fit with the stereotypes of modern living with a red velvet couch to go alongside it. The coffee table is rectangular in shape, small and low, and only an ash tray sits pathetically on top, fresh embers burning in the dark of it. A bookshelf sits near the television, and it’s stocked to the brim.

It’s more revelations about Shizuo than Izaya expected. He peruses the books, skims the covers with as much interest as he can muster. It’s not much.

“So.” Shizuo’s loud voice booms into existence again as he steps into the living room. He walks over and hands Izaya a cup. “What brings you here?”

“Merry Christmas,” Izaya tells him, taking a sip of sake. It’s bitter and burningly sweet, latching at his throat in a bright aftertaste that sends his body tingling warm. “I wanted to see a friend.”

“Don’t you have anyone else to spend it with?” Shizuo asks. It’s not meant to be offensive, the intentions behind it are more than clearly pure, but Shizuo grunts alarmed the next second and shakes his head. “I mean, apart from me. Family? You were asking for me since the afternoon, weren’t you?”

Izaya trails his eyes onto the wood of Shizuo’s floor. “If you don’t like my company, you could always say so.”

“I don’t _mean_ that,” Shizuo protests. “Just usually everyone’s busy spending time with their family, not hanging around waiting for a friend all day. I don’t mind. I just want to know.”

“My sisters would rather pine over famous movie stars than come over and check if I’m still alive. My parents are overseas, and the last time they called was when Kururi had a life-threatening fever and the hospital needed to contact a legal adult. I’m not sure about my great, great, great mother-in-law, though. Should I check?”

“I get it,” Shizuo says. “More sake?”

Izaya arches a brow, but accepts the offer.

“So. What did you do today?” It’s a simple question, one that shouldn’t feel awkward over the roll of his tongue, but it does and Izaya scrunches his face in displeasure at the feeling. He sets the cup down onto the coffee table to allow himself to lean forward, palms together as he looks over to Shizuo. “If you did anything at all.”

“I visited _family,”_ Shizuo tells him. “They live in Shinjuku, moved there awhile back into a penthouse Kasuka got for our parents. I stayed in Ikebukuro because of my job. I haven’t seen them in a long time. It was fun.”

“They sound delightful,” Izaya murmurs.

“They are,” Shizuo agrees. “You should come over the next holiday. I’m sure they would want to meet you. It’s better to spend time with people, too, right? Instead of being alone and all.”  
  
“I wasn’t alone,” Izaya protests, teeth gritted in almost active rebellion against the implication of Shizuo’s words. “I’ll have you know I spent the morning with a beautiful lady.”

Just as quick as Izaya’s protest, Shizuo cuts in: “ _Girlfriend?”_

“Of course,” Izaya agrees, drawing his fingers over the surface of the table. “Who else?”

“Liar,” Shizuo comments, downing his cup. “You wouldn’t be here if you had one.”

“Why not?” His pitch rising, Izaya can’t help the grin that flies onto his lips. His focus grows foggy and imbalanced, unable to catch himself properly into a concentrated trail of thought. He doesn’t know what to say next, doesn’t know what he will say next. Crossing his legs, Izaya tries to make himself comfortable. “Jealous?”

“Yeah,” Shizuo shoots back immediately. The heat beneath Izaya’s cheeks intensifies, flares up and races against his heart. Izaya’s jaw goes slack, his eyes widen, and every area of his skin prickles with surprise at the gentle baritone of Shizuo’s voice which knocks him over into breathlessness. “Guess I am.”

“Then you must be glad I don’t have one,” Izaya responds as easily as he can make it out to sound, but the full weight of Shizuo’s attention on him is unexpected, giving rise to a wave of self-consciousness that washes over him. Shizuo’s stare is firm, serious, tinged with a sense of resignation that Izaya can’t decipher the meaning of. He wasn’t expecting this when he came walking in.

 “I promised Kasuka that I’d do this, and I’m not gonna break a promise so quick,” Shizuo chooses to open with, “I talk to him about you, you know. Us.”

“Lovely, hope you’ve been getting in the good word for me.”

“Yeah,” Shizuo agrees, trailing off. “I… Look, you’re smart enough to know where this is going.”

“Maybe,” Izaya opts for as an answer, drags his eyes over to the walls. From the corner of his eye, he can see Shizuo blink and his gaze turn soft, gentle enough to make Izaya’s stomach drop into freefall from regret. “Or maybe I’m not trying to acknowledge it.”

“Hey,” Shizuo breathes quietly, voice barely thrown out into the air. It’s nothing past a whisper, and it should be too soft to hear, but the apartment is quiet enough that it rings loud in Izaya’s head, quiet enough that the warmth behind Shizuo’s words comes running out into the open. “It’s fine to reject me.”

“No,” Izaya immediately says. He lets go of a breath he thought had ran off long ago. “No. I wasn’t going to.”

Shizuo huffs, hope springing into the melody of his voice as he breathes out heavily. His shoulders go slump, his lips begin to form the beginnings of a wide smile, and the weak light shining on them only serves to accentuate the warmth tingeing the chuckle he lets go of. ‘I see’ comes out from his mouth in a slurred instinctive response, and then he’s putting the cup down to reach his hands over to the back of his neck in sheepish steadiness, averting his eyes for a single sole moment that disappears as quickly as it came.

“I like you,” Shizuo confesses.

“I can tell,” Izaya responds, and the indifference in his voice would have shone through if he wasn’t shifting nearer over to where Shizuo sat.

“I like you a lot,” Shizuo continues. Izaya swallows hard, fighting to even stay stiffly still. Heat surges through him and knocks at his head, makes his vision swim with a surrealness to the situation that wasn’t there before.

“Really,” Izaya tries, throat tense on emotion. His voice is raspy, startling when followed by the smoothness of Shizuo’s words. It’s hard to believe that he’s speaking when it doesn’t even sound like his own.

“Yes,” Shizuo says. “Hard to believe, huh?”

Izaya chokes up laughter, lifting his hand to weave them into Shizuo’s hair. It takes Shizuo by surprise, makes him lean away at first, but then he accepts it and moves closer, and closer, and closer.

“Yes,” Izaya repeats, voice an echo now with all of his attention fully on Shizuo. “Wow. I wasn’t expecting this for Christmas.”

“Neither did I,” Shizuo says. He’s smiling. “Neither did I.”

“Just do it, Shizuo,” Izaya commands. Shizuo huffs amusement, and with an arm wrapping around Izaya’s shoulder protectively, pulls Izaya close into his chest.

“If you say so,” he responds, light and softly against the dark of Izaya’s hair.

Reaching out to brace his free hand against Izaya’s head, Izaya finds himself shutting his eyes in anticipation. Shizuo leans in, and Izaya doesn’t pull away.

It’s not a dream.

**RETURN.**

()

They’re sitting at the edge of a construction site. It’s dangerous, risky, all the kinds of threat-related adjectives Izaya could spin up with, but it’s hard for any inkling of fear to rise up in the back of their throats. He could take on the world, like this, with Shizuo’s hand locked in his.

There’s a long period of quiet. His head lies against Shizuo’s shoulder, looking out into the bright, sharp lights of the city. Engines roar and die, chattering rises and falls. Above, the moon alternates between hiding behind clouds and showing itself as the hour flies by. Deep in Izaya’s chest, his heart thuds. A rhythm akin to the beating of drum thrums in his veins, in his head, accompanies the faint lilts of Shizuo’s breathing gliding into his ears.

He slowly stands. Shizuo notices, lets go of his hand. worry flashing onto Shizuo’s face is obvious, his eyes intently watching Izaya without so much of a blink.

“What are you trying to do?” Shizuo asks, concerned.

But Izaya doesn’t get a chance to answer. Shizuo’s voice turns into a slur, Ikebukuro’s lights a blur in his vision, and before he can try to regain himself everything comes rushing towards him. Izaya feels himself go slack, his eyes rolling up as an ease similar to giving in to fatigue floods his senses, and he falls.

Even the desperate bark of Shizuo’s voice does nothing to snap him out of it.

()

It’s the beeping that wakes him.

Rhythmic, in-sync with the beating of his heart. He cracks his eyes open slightly, a hiss escaping him from the bright that assaults him, forces him to shut his eyes.

Izaya tries again.

()

Cream-colored walls bores down at him when the light fades in intensity. A crying ache is spread over every bit of his muscles, bruises calling his attention each time he tries to move his legs. His back groans when he lifts his shoulders, tries to lift himself up, and Izaya soon finds the soft comfort of the pillow behind him to be nothing short of an essential crutch.

When he manages to sit, Izaya stares down at himself. The sheets cover him well enough, but the flickers of unmistakable pain flaring into consciousness tells him more than he needs to know. His throat is unbearably dry. Izaya exhales, a small sound to test his voice, and he’s not surprised when he softly rasps into the still air.

Memories from the last night he remembered sit at the back of his head. Immediately, his eyes jump across to the room—and—and something isn’t right. There’s no one but him here, although the curtains of his hospital bed drawn to cover him from the rest of the patients, and he can hear footsteps but they’re all far away from where he lies. Shizuo, he thinks, should be here.

Shizuo. Izaya tilts his head upwards, shuts his eyes.

He can’t tell the time, not when there’s not a single clock to be seen. Maybe minutes pass, or hours pass, or a day does, but then _“Izaya,”_ comes ringing loud and clear into the air, the familiarity of it unmistakable in his ears and bringing more than just relief into the throes of his heart.

Izaya opens his eyes. The curtains draw themselves open, the heart monitor quickens, and the warm rush disappears as quickly as it had came.

“Shizuo,” Izaya greets. There’s no cutesy nicknames or any flirtation or tease or lilt in his voice this time, nothing but a drone of a monotone as Izaya fights to keep the emotions out of his voice. Shizuo doesn’t look any worse than Izaya does, but he’s in the same hospital gown Izaya’s in, bandages wrapped around his elbow and a band-aid slapped across his cheek like a joke. “…You don’t look so good, yourself.”

Shizuo’s fingers drop from the curtains. His expression is dark, his lips tight. If Izaya lowers his eyes he bets he’ll catch glimpses of Shizuo’s free hand turning into a rigid fist.

“Yeah, guess so,” Shizuo growls underneath his breath, steps back before taking another step forward. He breathes in shakily, turning his head back to look at someone or something else.

Izaya avoids his eyes.

()

He makes a beeline for his home the moment Shinra allows them to be released from the hospital. He reasons to be let go of earlier, goes on a small tirade on the monster not too far away from him, but Shinra remains unconvinced. There’s a few minutes of awkward scrambling to his feet as he shrugs his coat over himself while stepping into the elevator with Shizuo coming not too far away, behind him, head bowed down low and teeth edging his lips, plucking at any dry skin that rears its head. Shizuo’s hands remain in his pockets throughout the trip down, and they don’t say anything to each other.

Izaya rushes out when the lift opens. Shinra and Celty are at the entrance, and Shinra waves over while Celty only raises her PDA—doesn’t look too energetic about everything. Izaya gives them brief glances, nodding his way through whatever conversation Shinra tries to make, before saying his goodbyes and dashing off.

In the taxi, he turns to replying to the barrage of texts blowing up his phone. A few days and it’s a wonder how the city hasn’t fallen into itself without his presence. The dozens of calls and texts aren’t the only ones he has though—Izaya doesn’t doubt that his cell phones stowed underneath his drawer have been equally busy.  His work is cut out for him. As Izaya leaves the taxi, slipping into the glass doors of the lobby of his penthouse, it’s easy to rationalize that there will be no time to go back to Ikebukuro at all.

()

_“’zaya…?”_

_Peering his eyes open, the faint blue glow of the moon looks back at him. There’s an arm wrapped around his torso, fingers splayed gently across his stomach, his back touching Shizuo’s body and the back of his neck near Shizuo’s every breath. Izaya rouses, turns slightly to acknowledge Shizuo’s words._

_“…nothing. Go back to sleep. I just… wanted to make sure you were here.”_

_“I’m not going to disappear…”_

_“I know. G’night, Izaya.”_

_“Mm, likewise,” Izaya yawns, eyes drooping close. He feels himself go slack, easing into Shizuo’s hold as easily as sleep takes him._

_It’s a good night._

()

Izaya opens his eyes, fingers reaching out for the other side of the bed. When the chill of the air-con finds him, alertness takes over and forces him to turn with his back against the mattress, looking up at the ceiling.

He wonders what Shizuo is doing.

()

Ikebukuro is a rumbling storm outside the comfort of the windows. Lightning flashes and thunder rambles into forever, the red wine in Izaya’s glass slowly reduced to nothing over the hours.

If he tries, if he really tries to remember the fight that led to the hospitalization of both of them, he can recall every single detail, every single thought that rushed through his head.

But it’s not as vibrant as Shizuo lounging around in his living room. Not as colourful as the green-red sweater he wore for Christmas. Not as vivid as a single life condensed into days.

Izaya tightens his hold on the glass, but he doesn’t have that monstrous strength needed to break it.

()

He can never escape Ikebukuro.

The bustling city is a direct hit of nostalgia. Even within the confines of his dream, details were pinpoint and precise. It makes him sick.

There’s a very vague idea of what and why he’s doing here, except Izaya doesn’t want to go further into it other than that. He strolls down the sidewalk but he can feel it in the hard line of his shoulders, an inability to relax gripping all of him without signs of fading away.

It’s been a long time since he’d set foot here, and the city shows it. There are people lining the streets he doesn’t know much of, the streets and festivals blending into a blurry mess of time Izaya has lost track of. He finds himself recalling fictional details about the alleyways and the rooftops, the wrong dates and timings popping in his head as if that were the life he’d been living all along.

But some things never change. The moment Izaya steps into the central district, a long drone of his name gushes out into the air like clockwork.

“ _I—ZA—YA—“_

Adrenaline injects itself into his veins, his pace picking up into a slight hop as he turns around at the sound. And there he is—in all of his glory—bright blond and black and white, the way Izaya likes it. Except, Izaya feels nothing but dread and he can feel his entire mind shutting down the moment he meets the other’s gaze, aware of the minefield awaiting his thoughts. Izaya huffs a breath to give the impression of amusement, of satisfaction at the other’s presence like it’s not a conflicting pool of malice and contentment, and slips the knife into his hands, out into the open.

“It’s been a long time,” he drawls.

“Get _out.”_ Shizuo wastes no time. He doesn’t reach for anything, and instead breaks out into a full-fledge sprint, hands grasping and desperate for the white cuffs of Izaya’s coat. Izaya pretends he’s not biting at the edges of his lip, and spins around to maintain the distance between them. His lungs are inhaling fire, hot white cold cutting the tips of his skin, and the smirk on his face is true and genuine but the taunts that leave him are far from the truth. _Out of practice, Shizu-chan. How are you going to kill me?_

And then, it goes too far. Izaya knows it when it comes into realization at the back of his throat, but he can’t stop it from grating terribly against his vocal chords as his mouth moves of its own volition, spitting the words out with the same vindication Shizuo spat his name.

“How I missed hating you like this, Shizu-chan.”

Izaya turns into an alleyway, the full force of his own words haven’t striking him yet. He drags himself against the wall, swallowing as Shizuo’s sprint slows down into a shuffle of feet as he finds himself again, hot red anger dying down into a misplaced ugly frown across his mouth. His jaw is set, his eyes blazing with fury, and his fists are clenched so hard that Izaya can see traces of blood beginning to spill.

It feels so _surreal._

“ _You,”_ Shizuo growls, slamming his fist into the bricks beside him, stamping every step deep into the ground with every movement he makes to close the distance. “What are you doing _here_?”

“Am I not welcome?” Izaya asks back, tilting his head sideways as the lilt of a tease escapes him. He presses himself flat against the bricks, the smirk on his face steady as ever. “I used to live here. I don’t remember Ikebukuro being _yours,_ Shizu-chan.”

“I told you to never come back,” Shizuo hisses underneath his breath, closing the distance between them in two long strides. Izaya tilts his chin up, looking into Shizuo’s eyes, his hands forming fists below the cuffs of his jacket. “Why won’t you _leave_ me alone?”

“How narcissistic! Have you ever considered that I don’t drop by just because I want to see your face? I’m a busy man, Shizu-chan.”

Shizuo is close enough that his hot breath stings against Izaya’s skin like the warm crackle of a fire. His hands dig deeper into the bricks, and the wall rumbles beside Izaya’s ears like bells as Izaya’s taunt digs deep into Shizuo’s head. Shizuo’s face turns darker, his glare cutting, and the frown turns into a gigantic scowl as a growly rumble leaves the back of his throat. The wall cracks slightly as Shizuo’s anger opens the pathway for more force, the murderous intent in the brown of his eyes maniac and concentrated solely on Izaya, and when Shizuo moves again Izaya braces himself for a hit, hands already reaching up to hopefully catch the cuff of Shizuo’s wrist in resistance.

But Shizuo doesn’t go for the strangulation Izaya expected, and neither has the beginnings of a bruise began to blossom along his skin. For a moment the murderous rage flares, and Izaya winces slightly, and then—and then Shizuo sighs. It’s a shaky sigh, one that has always and _still_ makes Izaya’s nerves sing from the unmasked frustration radiating from it, but the absence of physical violence strikes Izaya more than simply unnerving.

Izaya blinks.

Shizuo’s scowl leaves his lips as he presses them together, staring at Izaya with a resigned expression. Izaya knows it’s still possible to coax the bubbling anger no doubt stirring within Shizuo’s chest, an agonized snarl of his name still within his grasp, but the full force of Shizuo’s hatred slacking leaves him more breathless than any of their chases had. He opens his mouth. Shizuo shakes his head, gives him a warning glare.

“I know you remember,” Shizuo hisses. His right hand drops down onto Izaya’s shoulder. “You can’t lie to me.”

“Even a brute like you should know dreams are just dreams,” Izaya cuts in, fingers curling around the hilt of his blade. “Or has that brain of yours shrunk even more in the past few days?”

“Shut _up,”_ Shizuo snarls, leaning in closer. “You didn’t deny _it._ You _remember.”_

“Congratulations, Shizu-chan. Now what?”

Shizuo’s mouth hangs slightly open. He recoils, and Izaya’s heart drops deep into the pits of his stomach.

“…It won’t change anything, if that’s what your delusional mind is wishing for,” Izaya continues.

“I know,” Shizuo says, dumbly. He doesn’t move. “Don’t need to tell me that, louse.”

“Then let me go,” Izaya demands, impatience snaking up his spine.

“No,” Shizuo grunts. “No.”

“What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then let me go.”

“ _No,”_ Shizuo reasserts, moving back in. Izaya scrunches his face up into distaste, running a hand through his hair.

“You’re wasting both our time.”

“Shut up. Let me think.”

“Oh, you could do that?”

“Fuck _you.”_

“Been there, done that,” Izaya drawls, leaning back against the wall. He kicks his leg against the bricks, shoulders falling as the tension in them releases itself, the scowl on his lips turning into a lazy quirk of his lips. “Anything else?”

Shizuo purses his lips, leans back as he winces, slightly. It’s a small thing, a small slip of his strength as he moves back to inhale deeply like Izaya’s taken every bit of his air away, but then Izaya is slipping underneath his arms and strafing past him, knife glinting under the light of the sun to stun him momentarily.

“Oh, and don’t even think about _catching_ me,” Izaya shouts in afterthought, turning the corner as fast as his feet allow. He doesn’t know what Shizuo does, doesn’t know how Shizuo reacts. But what he knows is that Shizuo doesn’t say anything, and that the thought to continue the chase probably didn’t even hit him when Izaya manages to spend the rest of his day in Ikebukuro alone, unperturbed.

()

3am.

Shizuo never keeps his spare key with him even after entering his home. To his credit, his reputation wards off potential threats and burglaries, but Izaya thinks it’d be safer if Shizuo adopted the routine of manually hiding his spare key first thing in the mornings. Less likely for Izaya to sneak in, too, after all, but that’s what copies are for.

The door clicks shut as Izaya takes off his shoes, leaves them on the rack beside Shizuo’s own. He’s careful to make sure he doesn’t make any sound, but even then Izaya isn’t sure if it’s worth all the trouble to pretend that he’s not going to get Shizuo’s attention any time soon.

Stepping into the living room, he relaxes, somewhat, and his footsteps make firm sounds against the floor boards. Not worth all that effort to be stealthy, Izaya decides. He slides the door to the kitchen open, slips in.

He’s three or four steps in when Shizuo comes _saying_ his name in the kitchen doorway. Izaya turns. There’s nothing inherently angry in Shizuo’s voice, nothing like rage that Izaya has grown used to, nothing except a resigned call of his name like it’s the sixty eighth time Izaya’s broken into here without warning. Tension hangs in the air when Izaya casually looks into Shizuo’s eyes, before it breaks to the sound of Shizuo’s stride.

Izaya barely makes it to his third breath when Shizuo reaches him, and continues walking over to a dining chair.

The kitchen isn’t very well furnished. Only a small table and two chairs lies aside from counters and refrigerators and ovens, but even then it’s nothing fancy to write about. Shizuo seats himself in a chair, glancing over.

A glimpse of irritation escapes past his calm demeanour, but that’s the only thing Izaya sees.

“Louse,” Shizuo quietly says. “What are you waiting for?”

Izaya blinks, stares. He sways in place, before putting his weight against the table, the palm of his right hand pressing _hard_ against the wood. “Wow! For the first time, Shizu-chan isn’t trying to kill me on sight!”

Shizuo huffs. “I guess so. It’s late. I don’t want to bother anyone with any noise. A truce?”

“I’d presumed one formed when you saw me without attempting murder,” Izaya sarcastically murmurs, sitting on top of the table. Shizuo looks up at him. “Don’t you have anything to ask? Perhaps like what I’m doing here? How I got in?”

“If you want me to,” Shizuo replies. “So.”

“For one, keep your spare key somewhere else. The other question—for me to know, for you to forget about and mull over in that monster brain of yours.”

“Dunno why I expected anything different,” Shizuo grunts, leaning back against the chair. “When did you figure out where my key was?”

“A long time ago,” Izaya supplies, helpfully.

“Oh.”

“You’re acting _weird,”_ Izaya complains, crossing his arms. He narrows his eyes as he studies Shizuo, lips in a deep frown. “I’d expect a thing or two thrown at me, by now.”

“I won’t stoop to picking on the defenceless.” Shizuo sits up straighter, like Izaya hadn’t spoke. He looks at Izaya with more focus now, realization sliding over his face like the first few hours of dawn. “You’re _drunk,”_ Shizuo elaborates.

“I’m not,” Izaya refutes, smugly.

“I can smell it on you,” Shizuo states. “I didn’t know you drank.”

“I’ll have you know alcohol is regularly used in _professional_ settings, such as the job I have. This,” Izaya says, gesturing with a hand, “is _not_ professional to any degree. So, I’m not drunk.”

“Fucking hell, ‘zaya,” Shizuo heaves in exasperation. “I’ve been a bartender for… years, and in a dream. I know what intoxication smells like. Looks like, acts like, whatever.”

Izaya makes a small moue, arms crossed by his chest again. “What are you going to do about it?”

“What?”

“If I’m drunk. Maybe I am. That’s not important. But what are you going to do about it?”

“We’ll see. Haven’t thought that far,” Shizuo replies, shrugging. “But you’re not leaving.”

“Kidnapping? How low can you go, Shizu-chan?”

“You came _over_ to your arch-nemesis’ house.”

“Are we? I thought dreams meant something, Shizu-chan.”

Shizuo tenses. “If they did?”

Izaya grins. He unfolds his arms, leans in closer to Shizuo. “Maybe I got drunk in hopes of a little hate fucking, mm? You know we both remember what we did in that stupid dream. Imagine how good it would feel in real life, Shizuo.”

“You’re drunk,” Shizuo grumbles, flitting his gaze somewhere else. “Stop talking.”

“Why? Because you can’t stop thinking about _it?_ I’ll commiserate with you, Shizu-chan—I can’t stop, either! Isn’t it silly? Isn’t it funny? Dreams are just dreams, and yet—“

“Shut up,” Shizuo growls, fingers darting to pull at Izaya’s collar out of impulse. But there’s too much strength in the action, too much on-the-spot irritation in the heat of his veins, and combined with the lack of any resistance coming from Izaya, Izaya falls front onto Shizuo, knocks him back into the chair and sends both of them toppling back. Izaya gasps as he’s stricken breathless from the impact of the fall, head crushing against the hard of Shizuo’s chest as his fingers find themselves grasping at Shizuo’s shirt for balance. Above him, Shizuo isn’t doing any better if his shaky exhale is of any indication.

“You could’ve just said something if you wanted me this badly,” Izaya murmurs, craning his head up to look. “…I wouldn’t mind.”

“Izaya,” Shizuo warns, voice dipping low. “Get off me.”

“Push me off. You can do it, can’t you?”

“I…”

“Don’t want to hurt me? Please,” Izaya mocks, rolling his eyes. He trails his fingers against Shizuo’s chest, leaning over Shizuo’s face. “Don’t try to be funny.”

“Louse,” Shizuo says slowly.

“Do you think about me the way I think about you? Why weren’t you asleep, Shizu-chan? Was it because of me? Only me? How precious! To think that even in your sleep I’m ruining your life, can you really tell yourself I’m still a somewhat decent person to fall in love with at that point?” Izaya laughs, getting up. He stumbles behind him, knocking into the table, but the pain ebbs quickly away into a numb sensation.

Shizuo scrambles to his feet, glare hot and heavy over Izaya. “Izaya,” he repeats darkly, “I said stop talking.”

“But I want it,” Izaya blankly confesses. His arms fall to his side. “You’re not a decent person either, you know,” he says, “but then again I don’t care. I pity you, honestly. To tell the truth, I’m fine with waking up and realizing I’m stupidly fond of the person I’m supposed to be seen killing. But if I were you and I woke up knowing that, I just might end up suffocating on my hatred. Is that how you feel, Shizu-chan?”

Shizuo goes still.

“Wow! So quiet, so unlike you. What’s wrong? Realized—“

“I told you to _fucking shut up,”_ Shizuo snarls, moving. Izaya’s words drop into his throat, his eyes widen in surprise, and when he moves it’s to try and avoid Shizuo as he comes stomping closer—but Izaya’s back hits against the table. Shizuo comes to an abrupt stop, right then and there in front of him, and then—and then exhales with all the force he can muster. “So stay _quiet.”_

Shizuo’s hand comes wrapping around Izaya’s waist. It’s a slow, painful process as Izaya recognizes what’s going on, and as Shizuo’s hesitation seeps into every inch of his action. Then Izaya’s lips move of their own accord to say something, and this time the anger flashing in Shizuo’s eyes is very much real and present, but this time, Shizuo crushes his mouth to Izaya’s to choke them, stop them from leaping out into the night. He growls against Izaya’s lips, hand so firmly around Izaya that Izaya can barely find space to move in place as he arches at the once long-lost contact, eyes sliding shut when they break apart only to meet again seconds later.

“You’re going to disappear when I wake up,” Shizuo states, words bumbling over Izaya’s lips in a cover of hot breath.

“I am,” Izaya affirms.

“You’re going to pretend like this never happened when we fight,” Shizuo states.

“I am,” Izaya affirms.

“You’re going to run away,” Shizuo states.

“I am,” Izaya affirms.

Shizuo’s eyes dip closed, frustration splayed out across his face for Izaya to see.

“You’re still going to think about this when you wake up at night,” he states, and leans in again for another kiss. Izaya gasps into Shizuo’s mouth, heat resonating all through him as Shizuo holds him even tighter.  

“ _Shizuo,”_ Izaya says through clenched teeth, hands finding their way into the white of Shizuo’s shirt, “ _Shizuo.”_

“Not gonna talk now, huh?” Shizuo growls lowly. “What’s wrong, Izaya?”

“Maybe I’m stunned by your idiocy,” Izaya tells him, pushing his fingers deep into the fabric of Shizuo’s shirt. Shizuo rolls his eyes, and then they’re both quiet for a moment as Shizuo leans in just enough that their lips barely touch. Shizuo’s hold goes slack around Izaya’s waist, his scowl disappears into a firm press of lips, and Izaya has both his hands in Shizuo’s hair and neither of them are dead just yet. Shizuo could kill him right here and now if he tried, Izaya knows this absolutely, but it doesn’t deter his excitement as he eagerly presses his lips back in response.

“Shut up,” Shizuo snaps, pushes Izaya further back against the table. His hand presses against the wood to balance himself as both of them stop to catch themselves. “Like you’re not being an idiot _too.”_

“I never said I wasn’t,” Izaya states, attempting to mimic a mocking tone when his entire body is shivering with anticipation, “Don’t put words in my mouth, Shizuo.”

“Yeah, right, like anything you say is actually _good_ for once,” Shizuo hisses, drawing his hand under Izaya’s shirt, dragging _hard_ , palm splayed out against his skin. Izaya groans at the touch, arching his back as Shizuo pulls his shirt a little bit more up, until he gets impatient and delicately runs his fingers over the hard of Izaya’s hip bones. Izaya’s mouth comes open, and then Shizuo is leaning in to crush his mouth with Izaya’s again before he can get any word out.

Izaya’s lashes flutter when Shizuo palms the outline of his cock through his jeans. “Ouch. You know me so well.”

“Yeah,” Shizuo agrees. He fumbles with Izaya’s belt, metal clicking loud in the air. “Unfortunate for me, huh?”

“Fortunate for me,” Izaya replies, moving to sit on the table when Shizuo releases him as he sets Izaya’s belt down onto the ground, pulls at his jeans.

Izaya doesn’t say anything else. There’s some kind of correlation between this and the way Shizuo pulls his cock out, fingers grasping at its base as hot pleasure resounds all over his body, but Izaya doesn’t stop to think about it. Not when Shizuo leans in closer and lets his breath trickle over the underside of his cock, teasing with flicks of a needy tongue as Izaya barely holds back the urge to rock his hips against the warmth of Shizuo’s mouth. Not when Shizuo gently holds his thighs apart, fingers like cotton landing across his skin. There won’t be any bruises the morning after, not when Shizuo has had practice.

His heart is beating, his breath is hitching. Izaya can feel strain along his spine, clenching his fingers deep down onto Shizuo’s scalp, gritting his teeth as Shizuo gives a long, full lick. Shizuo is breathing hard against his cock, but his touch remains soft and careful even as his grip around Izaya shifts, wrist angling up so his thumb now slips sideways to drag over the head of Izaya’s cock.

Izaya is losing control. He’s losing the rhythm of his heartbeat, and the spasms his legs are making are directly a result of restraint pulling his hips back. He leans his head back, eyes shut tight as slick warmth spills over his entire cock, wet sounds filling the air as Shizuo takes him in.

His lips are still warm, the taste in his mouth still vivid, and it’s something like a mistake to think about it when his stomach coils all of a sudden from the recollection of Shizuo’s mouth against his. His lungs are aching for air, his mouth open as he gasps Shizuo’s name in trembles and shakes. Climax draws nearer and Izaya’s hand drops down to Shizuo’s shoulder, nails digging in relentlessly into collarbones as his voice cracks into a groan, eyes still shut in memory of the wet of Shizuo’s lips. Izaya jerks his hips forward, and Shizuo takes it, and then Izaya holding back a gasp as he comes, spilling over into satisfaction. They’re silent, the only sounds in the air being their breathing when Shizuo releases him with a loud slick pop, sticky hands holding on to the edge of Izaya’s thighs.

“I wanted you so badly,” Shizuo finally says, tilts his head up to look Izaya in the eye. “I still do.”

“Hard to believe,” Izaya hums, grip on his voice not as full as he likes it to be just yet. He dips his head down and lets the afterglow bath him for a few more seconds.

“Shut up,” Shizuo growls, like he’s just remembered that they were enemies. “Do you still…”

“Go ahead,” Izaya tells him.

()

Shizuo is warm around him when he wakes.

It’s early into the new day when Izaya awakes. Sunlight hasn’t streamed into the room yet, the lights still dark and dim. Izaya wakes with Shizuo’s arm wrapped around him like a blanket, Shizuo’s breathing slow and calming, vibrating against his chest.

His hand dashes to the insides of his coat, draws his knife. But then his heart rate slows, consciousness comes flooding into his head, and then he lets go.

_()_

They return to normality, eventually, if walking into Shizuo’s home after fights used to happen often. It slowly becomes a way of life, growing on the two of them as easily as they’re able to shed blood from each other’s skin. Shizuo fucks him with as much strength as he puts into his punches, kisses with as much hatred as the storm in his eyes. They return to violence, and call it normality, and that’s always what’s expected of them.

It’s one of Shinra’s parties now, except this time—for once—Izaya is invited. They don’t talk to each other about it, make no mention of it even when they try their best to make small talk, but still the surprise flickering over Shizuo’s face is real and genuine when Izaya steps into Shinra’s apartment. He’s turning over, a drink in his hand and a merry smile on his face, looking like he’s been having a good, peaceful time like he’s always wanted, surrounded by friends and family. Izaya wonders distantly if there’s something to be jealous about, but stops.

 “Hello,” Izaya says, walking in. There are eyes other than Shizuo’s on him now, but he isn’t affected much by those. “Don’t let me stop the party.”

 “Izaya! You came!”

“Of course,” Izaya answers Shinra, glancing over briefly. “Why would I ever miss this?”

But in the next moment, he’s not looking at Shinra anymore. Not when Shizuo’s approaching him with a filled glass in his hand, not when the merry grin hasn’t disappeared a single inch from before Izaya’s arrival, not when the entire party is dying down into silence in his head as Shizuo extends the glass.

“A drink?”

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. it's been sitting in a folder since... forever
> 
> 2\. my love will never die
> 
> 3\. it's been so many years
> 
> 4\. ketsu still hurts me when i think about thinking about it


End file.
